Regrets
by Butterflygirl113
Summary: John Rimmer ponders his youngest brother. Over three million years later, Arnold Rimmer receives a message. (Or: John isn't a bad person, and Arnold is stronger than anyone gives him credit for.)
1. Chapter 1

John Rimmer sat at the captain's desk in one of the fleet's newest prototype vessels and sighed. Everywhere he looked, his new crew was scurrying about, mixing with the remainder of the base technicians, as both groups tried their best to get the beautiful machine up and running for the first time. Everything sparkled, the scent of fresh paint hanging in the air, while even the people seemed to shine with their excitement. The crew of the _Valiant_ were the best of the best, and they looked forward to their upcoming mission with pride. It was a great honor, John knew, to be selected as her captain. Yet, somehow, all he felt was disappointment.

He looked down at his crisp new uniform and frowned as the bitter, acid taste rose in his throat. Father had been proud—so mother said—when he had been given this commission. What parent wouldn't be? At thirty-five years old, their eldest son had claimed the most coveted role on one of the most coveted ships in the fleet. By all accounts, he was capable, charming, handsome, and brilliant—a true success.

He scoffed quietly. _Success._ How would he even measure that?

Somehow, he thought this moment would fill the growing emptiness inside of him. That the instant he put on the captain's uniform and claimed his spot on this particular bridge, he would finally be able to feel pride. The truth was, he felt no different from usual, and he hated it.

He growled softly to himself. Janine had been right all those months ago, though she didn't know how accurate her words were. Rimmer men _were_ impossibly driven and forever unsatisfied. Of course they were. With parents like theirs….

He drew his hand down his face, some emotion partway between frustration and exhaustion guiding the movement.

Not for the first time, his mind drifted to his brothers. Frank and Howard were doing fine and seemed to be following in his footsteps. Frank, especially, looked like he would have a promising career. It wasn't all that surprising. Though some would consider it unsporting, their parents had foot the bill to provide all of them with an incredibly expensive intelligence upgrade. When it came time for Arnold to get his, though….

John shook his head, wincing at the memory of the lean years.

As he had already moved out to his boarding school on scholarship, his family's downturn in fortune barely affected him. Frank had only to bear it for a year, and Howard had just received his implant months before. But there was no money for Arnold, and he left before their finances recovered. He was the only Rimmer son without the beneficial upgrade, and it showed.

He heard things—of course he did, he had connections—about Arnold sometimes. He often wondered if Arnold's struggles were a window into their own natural abilities. Would he have failed to pass all of his exams like his youngest brother? He had lived with the implant for so long that he found it difficult to remember a time before things came so easily to him. It was no wonder Arnold was bitter.

The youngest and the weakest, Arnold always took the longest to pick up on things. John would often watch his brother as he tried to keep up, and worry. Arnold was like the runt of a litter—scrawny and weak and sickly—and it was only a matter of time before nature (or Father) finished him off. The rest of them hardly helped matters, he thought with a familiar guilt.

John sat for a while and pondered, morose, before grimacing and rubbing at his shoulder. His arthritis was acting up again.

The joints were often stiff and sore, despite the best treatments medical science had yet devised. It was probably the result of all those mornings on the rack, he thought: joints frequently wrenched from their sockets due to their father's delusion that it would help them grow. He would be shocked if all of his brothers didn't have some similar damage, though they were lucky it wasn't any worse. That he ended up tall was a fortunate quirk of genetics that spared him further torture. He praised whatever part of his bloodline blessed him with the height that eventually freed him from that particular family tradition.

Arnold was short for his age.

John shuddered at what he knew that must have meant for him. He winced at the memories, rubbing a bit harder at a phantom pain.

Their childhood had been… _unusual_ at best. Aside from what John could now recognize as abuse and torture, their parents had been cold and fickle. They had also been, to put it kindly, a few cards short of a deck. He shook his head at the memory of one of their odd religious phases, marveling that a couple that could so horribly mistreat their own children would claim fervent attachment to (an admittedly strange interpretation of) Christianity. John was hardly ignorant—he had used his impressive, artificially-enhanced intellect to study just about everything—but it was probably his experience with frequent burns at lunchtimes and muscle cramps in the evenings due to their adherence to a misprint that left him distinctly atheistic. Even the thought of religion brought a sour taste to his mouth, now. After all, if there _was_ a God, how could he have allowed all that to happen to four helpless children?

No. Life was what you made of it, he reminded himself again, fiercely. Then, remembering his brother, his resolve crumbled slightly. Sometimes, you were what life made of you.

The image of a nine-year-old Arnold staked to the ground as they poured biting ants on his jam-covered face came to mind. It had been easy to reason away at the time: just brothers being brothers. Didn't all siblings squabble? Besides, Arnold had been particularly annoying that day, following them around and begging to be included. He had always been that way, John remembered; always desperate to be part of the group. As children, they didn't have the capacity to understand why that was. They weren't able to look beyond themselves, really. At the time, he'd have argued just that: he was annoying; it was normal sibling behavior (because, to them, it had been. How could they have known any different?)—but decades later, John knew better.

They had all had it rough, but Arnold had it worst.

Perhaps, subconsciously, they knew that sticking together would give them a leg up. Even then, it was easy to see that Arnold came last in brains and brawn. Of course he did—he was the youngest. But their childhood was hardly a breeding ground for empathy and selflessness; only the strong survived. They would tear him down, sensing blood in the water, and leave him to whatever fate awaited him. Like a herd of prey animals, they shoved him to the front as bait, sacrificing the frail one to protect the rest. They knew, deep down, that the only way that they would survive was to separate themselves from weakness.

This, unfortunately, was rewarded. Father always had a sadistic appreciation for competition; the more cutthroat the victor, the better. He raised a group of men like lone wolves: brutally efficient when necessary. Even Arnold learned that, at least. Like a cub copying its elders—its attempts weaker but essential for survival—he (even now) showed the same bitterness, drive, and selfish obsession with advancement at the expense of all others.

Though it was no secret that Arnold bore the brunt of their parents' displeasure, life at home hadn't been easy for any of them. Mealtimes left many of them malnourished, though none of them failed to notice the connection between father's favor and easier astronavigation questions. Arnold nearly died, but none of them dared defy their patriarch by sneaking him some of their food. Often, they were too hungry to spare it themselves. It was no wonder the boy was so painfully thin.

It was a marvel he survived at all, honestly. John assumed that either he somehow subsisted off the meager lunch he was provided for the school day (appearances must be kept up), or he found a kindly teacher to supplement his insufficient rations. John hoped it was the latter. Arnold had had it rougher than the rest of them and could have desperately used some kindness.

He often marveled that that broken, weak child managed to find the strength to free himself. At fourteen—starved, abused, beaten down, and tortured—he dragged himself away from their influence, found a lawyer, got himself emancipated. After that, he managed to find himself provisions, a living arrangement, education, and a job, all without family support—as a child.

Perhaps they had all been wrong, John thought. Arnold wasn't weak. He was the strongest of them all.

He really ought to reach out to Arnold, he thought, for probably the hundredth time. But how would he go about doing that? He probably had a lot of bitterness toward him (and he had a right to), and Rimmer men weren't exactly known for their ability to apologize. He knew himself well enough to know that the second Arnold's justifiable anger came out, he'd respond like his father: harsh, cutting, and tolerating no rebuke. It was why he hadn't reached out to him already—well, that and the guilt. Still, they were getting too old for this distance and animosity to remain between them. Surely, as adults, they could put this all behind them and try to find some common ground.

Tonight. He would draft a letter tonight.

One of the workers from the base rapped timidly at his door, and John nodded for him to enter. He could see the man's nametag on the chest of his beige uniform: _Thomas._

"What can I do for you, Mr. Thomas?"

With a wince and sympathetic eyes, Thomas held out an envelope to him.

"I'm sorry, sir."

John felt his heart seize in his chest as his stomach sank. Forcing his hands to remain steady, he took the envelope and drew out the piece of official JMC letterhead.

'_We regret to inform you…._'

The letter fluttered to the ground.

* * *

John spent the rest of the night and the next several days in his quarters. He had requested, and been granted, a few extra days at the base. Many of his crew had had friends and family on _Red Dwarf_. A tragedy of this magnitude hadn't rocked the corps for over a hundred and fifty years, when space travel was in its infancy and technologies were still being developed. The mood everywhere was somber and grieving; they all needed some time to process what had happened.

The rare moments that the captain left his quarters, he was met with sympathetic looks and well-meaning words of comfort. He hated it. He didn't deserve the level of compassion granted to him by his remarkable crew. He spent most of his time silently staring at the walls in his room as memories played, unbidden, in his regretful mind. Eventually, he turned on the news to drown out the silence that was much too loud.

It didn't help.

The bright studio lighting shined on the anchor's curls, gleaming on the 'H' that identified her as a hologram. Channel 27 was one of the first of the major news organizations to employ a hologram; anti-dead bias was still quite strong. Her stoic face and gentle voice finished a report on advances in mechanoid technology before shifting to the one topic John hoped to avoid.

"By now, the tragic loss of the JMC mining vessel _Red Dwarf_ has touched all our hearts. The crew of 1,167 members has been reported as lost. However, it appears that one member of the crew survived the blast."

For a moment, John's mind filled with static and desperate hope. _Could it be…?_

"We have recently received a recording from the ship's computer—an advanced A.I. known as Holly—with additional information. Please be aware, this recording may be distressing for those who had a loved one on board."

The anchor sat quietly as the recording played to her left. The face of an older, balding man appeared on the screen. He spoke professionally, a hint of urgency and pain in the tightness of his voice.

"This is the computer of the JMC mining vessel, _Red Dwarf_. There has been an accident. Due to a ruptured drive plate, all but one of the crewmembers have been exposed to lethal doses of cadmium-2. Third technician David Lister was recently placed in stasis and remains shielded from the radiation. Per JMC protocol, the ship will be directed away from all inhabited planets until it's safe again."

The message froze, and John's hope crumbled. His mind focused on the fact that the name sounded familiar. He'd have to look back at his messages, but the sole survivor of the tragedy that stole his brother's life might have been the man who served under him.

The anchor started speaking again.

"The reason for the failure of the drive plate is still unknown, as is the reason for Mr. Lister being placed into stasis. While the unexpected survival of one of the crewmembers is a light during this dark time, his family and friends should, unfortunately, not expect to see him again. According to our experts, the amount of cadmium-2 released in such an accident would render the ship uninhabitable for three million years. David Lister will never again be released in our lifetimes. If the ship survives that long, he will be revived to a changed and distant galaxy. What will he find there? Will he encounter species we can only theorize or our own evolved race? Will he find himself in a thriving universe or an empty and dying one? Sadly, this is a mystery that will never be solved in our time. To the survivor of this tragedy, to the man who has captured our imaginations—if you ever see this recording, Dave Lister, from all of us, from all of humanity: Good luck."

John turned off the screen, staring blankly as the silence buzzed in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

The funeral was an awkward affair. John expected no less. Dozens of well-to-do and influential individuals gathered to give the "grieving" family their condolences. Mother, at least, was doing an admirable job appearing distressed. His gut twisted with disgust at the display, and he frowned. Even here, at her own son's funeral, she would play for sympathy in hopes of making one more step up the social ladder? Being the mother of one of the victims of the Red Dwarf tragedy came with some notoriety, it seemed, and losing her husband a few short months before only added to her pitiable air. His mother was in her element. He turned away to hide his scowl as she clung to a particularly wealthy businessman's arm, sobbing crocodile tears.

He could almost envision Father standing silently off to the side, his military posture matched with his stoic expression. John shook the thought away, not wanting to imagine the stern disappointment that he would have found there. It wouldn't help.

He wondered if Arnold had gotten the letter about Father's failing health. Certainly, the note about his passing would not have made it in time, interstellar mail delivery times being what they were. If he _had_ received the first note, had it affected his work in any way? Arnold was definitely the sort to try to do something big to prove himself, especially if time to do so was running out. John shook his head sadly, a pang of something excruciating wending its way through his lungs to his throat.

It hardly mattered now if Father's health had affected Arnold's career.

He frowned, tight and severe, as an unpleasant feeling clawed at his stomach and the air of the room pressed in on him. He resisted the urge to rub at his neck in an attempt to dislodge the phantom hand strangling him there.

He had been to far too many funerals lately.

He let out a disapproving sound at the back of his throat and looked around the room to distract himself.

Frank was clinging subtly to Janine's arm as she fussed over him, his eyes wide and empty. John knew the two brothers hadn't been close, but he suspected the death of one of their own shook something in him. Death wasn't supposed to come for ones as young as them, but their line of work was inherently dangerous. Perhaps he was facing his own mortality, pondering the potential for being unceremoniously torn from the arms of his gorgeous wife before his time. Perhaps, also, there was something inherently unsettling seeing a face staring back at him from a memorial picture that so nearly matched his own. Of the four of them, Frank and Arnold looked the most remarkably alike.

Howard, of course, was shamelessly flirting with the daughter of one of Io's up-and-coming diplomats. Were she paying attention, mother would likely have approved of his actions. Not only was she pretty, she was rich and connected. John found the whole thing revolting.

The blonde woman at his side rested a delicate hand on his arm, and he turned to her obligingly.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Did you want to say goodbye now, love?"

His eyes drifted over to the memorial table, a photograph of his youngest brother in his technician's uniform sitting at the center between two expensively ornate bouquets. As was the case for all of the victims of the tragedy, there would be no body to bury. He was certain that, secretly, his mother was pleased by that. It would be much less expensive that way. As it was, the flowers were probably the most expensive part of the funeral service.

John hated the display. He hated that they had no better picture of his brother than the JMC crewmember photo, and he hated that the only reason that his brother was granted such a lavish display was to pretend for the gathered guests that he had been a loved and valued member of the family. Everything about this event grated at him, but he nodded to his wife nonetheless. Regardless of the farce, his brother had still died. He deserved to have at least one person properly mourn him.

He walked slowly to the table and stood, staring at it, in silence for a while. The weight of all his memories and too many words left unsaid pressed down on him, and he found himself unable to speak. His wife gave his arm a comforting squeeze, and he looked down at her with a small, sad smile.

Hers was the only sympathy he accepted. It was the only sympathy that came from a place of _knowing._

He looked back down at the photograph, trying to find something in the image that suggested that his brother had ever been happy or satisfied with his life. Instead, he found only the look he saw too often in the mirror and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Arnold," he said softly. "You deserved better than this."

Patting his wife's hand on his arm, he turned to walk away.

He had had enough of this show. Let mother chastise him later; he was going home.

* * *

There were still three days left to his bereavement leave, and he spent them sitting in his living room in their little house on Io. It was a more pleasant location than the quarters on his ship, at least. Elisa was a truly gifted decorator, and the room was filled with soft colors and lots of light.

She sat beside him on the cream-colored settee, tilting her head as she did when she was concerned. Soft, brown eyes traced his face, but he didn't have the energy to obscure his feelings from her. She frowned, caressing his cheek.

"Darling, I'm worried about you."

He pulled away gently. If it was anyone else, the motion would have been far more forceful.

"My brother died, and my whole family pretended to care. It was disgusting."

Her eyebrows drew together in knowing concern, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest. When he had met her, he had been much like his father. Her influence had softened him. She had saved him; he had no doubt about that. He hated causing her pain.

"I think, perhaps, it is more than that," she said, leaving the words hanging in the air.

He sighed. She was right, as always.

"I never got to apologize," he replied. "I was going to, the day I got the letter. Now I'll never get the chance."

Elisa took his hand in hers gently, her wedding ring sparkling in the light. He marveled at the delicate softness of her skin and how it so perfectly mirrored her personality.

"You still can," she said. "Maybe he won't get to hear it, but it might do you good to get it out."

He turned to her with a questioning look.

"Write him a letter," she said. "Or record one. Tell him all the things you were going to say, all the things you want to say now, and send it out into space. Maybe just saying it will help you, since the words will no longer be bottled up inside."

He placed his other hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze, resting his forehead against hers.

"What would I do without you, darling?" he asked.

He felt her shift closer toward him and lean against his side.

"Hopefully, we'll never have to find out."

He drew her toward him in a tight hug, pressing his face to the top of her head and breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo.

"Yes," he said softly, "hopefully."

* * *

Author's Note:

I've been looking forward to publishing this one all week. There are several interesting concepts suggested here, and I'm curious what you all think of them. The interesting concepts:

Arnold's father must have died shortly before he did; otherwise, why bother sending a letter informing a dead man of his father's death? The Rimmer family was rocked by two deaths in a very short time. How would that have affected them?

They probably would have sent a letter letting Arnold know of his father's failing health. He is definitely the sort to try to make a last-ditch, major effort to try to impress his father while he still had the chance. Was it his father's illness that made Rimmer try to fix the drive plate on his own, thus leading to the accident? Did everyone on Red Dwarf die because Arnold Rimmer's father was dying?

In Timeslides, we learn that Frank and Arnold are extraordinarily alike, visually. Assuming Arnold is the only illegitimate child, that must mean Frank and Arnold heavily favor their mother's genes.

There were no bodies to bury from the accident, likely complicating many families' grief. (Not Arnold's, though.)


	3. Chapter 3

_Three million and three years later…._

"Oi, wake up, you lot!"

A chorus of disgruntled sounds made its way back through the room in response. The face of _Red Dwarf's_ ship computer bobbed excitedly on the screen in one of the only occupied crew quarters, gleefully ignoring the occupants' displeasure as they began to stir awake. As usual, the man on the bottom bunk responded more quickly, though it was still glacial and unwilling.

Arnold Rimmer groaned, drawing a hand over his face and catching on the 'H' that marked him as a hologram. Sleep-tousled curls and rumpled pajamas shifted as he grudgingly turned to look at the clock. He frowned, then glanced at the screen with reproachful eyes.

"Holly, it's seven AM. The only reason I want to be woken up at seven AM is if the ship is under attack."

David Lister grumbled incoherently in agreement from the top bunk, dolefully dragging his pillow over his head and pressing it down around his ears. Holly gave them a smug, sideways glance that looked like it was trying to be mysterious.

"Oh, so a special delivery mail pod wouldn't interest you. Right; guess I'll just turn it away, then…."

Rimmer sat up slowly in his bunk, his expression wary.

"Mail pod?"

Holly nodded placidly.

"Yeah. Looks like it has a video message on board—one of those small pods meant for emergency communications that only carries one letter."

Rimmer sneered and lay back down, shifting into a more comfortable position.

"Only one letter? That's hardly worth rallying the troops, Holly."

He rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes, preparing to go back to sleep. The computer managed to shrug without shoulders, looking off to the corner of the screen.

"It's from Io," he offered simply.

Rimmer shot up again.

"Io?"

"Yep. Looks like it's for you."

"_Well, why didn't you say that in the first place,_ you stupid goit_?_" Rimmer chastised, leaping to his feet and rushing out the door.

A moment later, a groggy Lister slid over the side of the top bunk and dropped to the floor, yawning as he slowly shuffled after him.

* * *

Lister drew the triangular cassette from the pod, blinking at it in bleary curiosity. "For Arnold" was written in a masculine scrawl on the label. Rimmer hovered impatiently over his shoulder, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited. Lister placed the tape into the player and pressed the start button.

Arnold visibly recoiled as his brother's face appeared on the screen, an acid taste rising in his throat. Lister noticed his reaction and cocked an eyebrow at him, pausing the video.

"It's my brother," Rimmer explained, stunned. "My oldest one: John. What was he doing sending me a letter?"

Lister shrugged.

"Well, let's watch it and find out."

He pressed play.

"Hello, Arnold. I know you'll never get this; you're already dead. It's a bit awkward recording this message, but Elisa—my wife—suggested that getting my thoughts off my chest might help.

You never met Elisa. You'd have liked her, I suspect; everyone does. Remarkable woman. Beautiful, kind, gentle. She's been my lifesaver in more ways than I could ever imagine. Perceptive, too. She'd probably have liked you. She has a way of seeing into people and finding all their best qualities, and liking them so much that you can't help but make them grow. You'd have got along famously; I know, because she managed to see the good in me."

Rimmer watched intently, and the image of his brother sighed.

"That brings me to why I'm recording this in the first place. I know I'm… not the best person. In the past, I was even worse. I never protected you as a child like I should have. I was the oldest brother; it was my job to keep you safe, to shield you from the worst of the world. To say I failed spectacularly would be an understatement."

Arnold stared, wide-eyed and gaping-mouthed, at the screen. Lister turned to look at him with concern.

"There's no excuse for what we—I—did to you. I know that we all suffered. There was never enough food, and even now I still live with the effects of the rack. Arthritis. Terrible for the joints. But you had it worst of all; we all knew it. I know now that we were competing for Father's favor, because favor meant food and an easier go of it. It was just easier to push you down to get ahead. I regret that terribly now."

Rimmer's expression twitched as Lister observed him carefully.

"You know, I was going to reach out to you the day I got the message from the JMC that you had died? I had been thinking about it all morning, about how I needed to apologize. About how much I'd hoped—"

Here, John appeared to get choked up, and he took a moment to swallow the emotions. He cleared his throat and started again.

"…that we could get past this. Be the brothers we should have been in the first place. Now I know I'll never get that chance."

Arnold marveled as his stoic older brother—a _Rimmer_, raised to abhor all weakness—wiped away tears.

"What I wouldn't give to have you hear this. To have you _know_ how sorry I am. God, I wish I'd just given up my pride and written you earlier, like I always meant to. I was afraid—cowardly thing, to be afraid of talking to your own brother just because he'd be justifiably angry at you. Now I wish I had, no matter what the consequences would have been. It would be better than _this,_" he spat. "This damned _regret._"

He sat silently, fuming at something off-screen for a while. Finally, he spoke.

"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat and blinking back the remaining tears, "I'm going to send this out after Red Dwarf. I know it won't make any difference; there's no one there to receive it. Still, it just… _feels_ like you'll get it somehow. I know that's rubbish, but it's the closest I'll ever be able to get to actually apologizing to you."

He sighed, looking everywhere but at the camera. He began to fiddle with his fingers and jiggle his leg. Lister noted the family similarity. Suddenly, John started speaking again, blurting out the thought.

"Elisa's pregnant. A son. We haven't told anyone else yet. This will be our first. We were talking, and…."

He looked down again, almost pained.

"I think we're going to name him after you somehow. Maybe his middle name."

Arnold gaped at the news. John looked directly at the camera with earnest eyes.

"I'll do right by this one. I'll protect him like I should have protected you."

He lowered his voice, muttering to himself.

"This is one 'Arnold' I won't let down."

He looked back at the camera, speaking with his normal volume.

"I know it won't make any difference for you, but, wherever you are, I…." He got choked up again. "I hope… that you know, somehow, how sorry I am. How much I wish I could change things. I should have… I should have been better. And I will, now. I will be. For my son, for Elisa, I'll be the sort of man I should have been… for you. God, I'm sorry, Arnold. I wish I could tell you all this myself, but this will have to do. I hope, wherever you are, you're finally at peace. I hope you're happy. God knows you deserved it. Anyway…."

He paused, staring at the camera as though he hoped to catch a glimpse of the man he was speaking to.

"… Goodbye, Arnold."

He sighed, lingering, extending the last moment he would directly address his youngest brother. Finally, his eyes turned resigned and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Goodbye."

The message ended.

The duo stood in silence for a long moment.

Finally, Lister breathed out a single, awed word: "_Smeg_."

Rimmer nodded slowly, eyes wide.

"Indeed."

Lister looked at him with concern.

"How are you, man?"

Rimmer blinked, the dazed expression slowly clearing from his face.

"I… I don't know. I never expected…."

He shook his head, still trying to process what he had heard.

"A son, named after me?" Rimmer looked at the screen helplessly. "I never thought... that any of them would be upset that I was gone. I supposed they wouldn't care, or even be happy about it, but..."

He stared at the screen, and Lister watched his emotions flicker over his face as he tried to settle on how to feel. Something uncomfortable ached in Lister's chest at the display—a sharp, melancholy pain straining inside of him like a bowstring pulled too taut. Rimmer gave one of his rare, vulnerable frowns: the small sort that usually only showed up after a couple of drinks, or late at night in the dark when the boundaries of proper discussion seemed looser and Rimmer thought he couldn't see it. The string in Lister tugged a little tighter.

"Looks like they did care; or, at least, one of them did," Lister suggested gently.

Rimmer blinked and looked back at him, lost and off-footed, as something raw and aching swirled in his eyes.

"I... yes. I suppose he did."

He turned back to the monitor, scrutinizing the face that was still frozen there. After a time, his soft, thoughtful tone floated back to Lister.

"John wasn't the worst of them, you know. Oh, he was hardly kind, but there were times... Sometimes, I think he'd look at me with sympathy when I'd get a question wrong and go without dinner. He'd always look at his plate then, like he was thinking about sharing with me. Obviously, he couldn't. Father would have never allowed it."

Something straightened in Rimmer's spine, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Lister recognized the blustering pride in his posture that usually served as a sort of self-defense or an excuse for what was done to him. This topic—the memories—was really weighing on him.

"There were times he'd distract the others from doing whatever it was they were doing to me. I always wondered if it was part of some worse prank he had planned, but... maybe he was trying to protect me after all."

Rimmer stared off pensively, a muscle twitching occasionally in his face as he thought, and Lister watched as a piece of Rimmer's life rewrote itself behind his eyes. He waited until Rimmer blinked himself back into the present, the distant look fading into thoughtfulness, before he next spoke, quiet and careful.

"So, man…," he said, gesturing loosely to the screen and the finished video, "any regrets?"

"I…."

Rimmer seemed to ponder the question, a lost and hopeless confusion swimming in his eyes. He looked back at the screen where his brother's face remained frozen in its final farewell.

"I suppose… I wish we could have worked things out, like he said. If I'd had any idea…."

He shook his head, looking away with a melancholy frown.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Still, though, man…. Your brother reached out to you. He cared. That must mean something."

Arnold turned back to the screen, examining the sad and earnest expression on his oldest brother's face, and smiled slightly.

"It does."

After a moment, Lister's eyes lit up with understanding, and he matched Rimmer's soft smile with one of his own. He reached over to turn off the monitor, the screen going blank. As the two men turned to walk back to their room, the memory of John's apology hung in the air.

Lister trailed behind a bit, his smile growing as he watched the new lightness to Rimmer's step. He silently thanked the man he had never met for sending out the letter that he thought wouldn't make any difference. Rimmer glanced back over his shoulder to see if Lister was coming, a gentle, genuine smile on his face. Lister grinned and moved to catch up.

The bowstring loosened in his chest, replaced with a swelling warmth.

Rimmer's words echoed in his mind, blossoming and bright.

_It does._


End file.
